Page 88 of In Somnis

I find the old crate of spray cans where it’s been for years, tucked behind a collapsed workbench. I grab one, shake it, and listen to the rattle.

Still a little paint in there.

The hiss of the spray is loud in the hollow space as white paint bleeds over the red letters, swallowing them whole. The word disappears inch by inch until there’s nothing left but a lighter patch of wall. At least out here, I can fix it.

I toss the can back into the crate and then lean against a dry patch of wall, tilting my head back and resting against it. The cold sinks into my skin while the exhaustion settles back into my bones.

I’m so fucking tired.

The little restless sleep I get, sleeping pills, and routines don’t help.

Pretending I’m fine helps the least.

Sucking in a deep breath, I step away from the wall and roll my neck slowly from left to right until something in it loosens. This place is beautiful in a broken way—color everywhere, every high wall windowless but layered in art, a lot of it mine. Four trees have taken up residence inside the building, their trunks stretching upward, reaching for the light spilling in from a ceiling that doesn’t exist anymore.

The sky is already paling as late afternoon bleeds toward evening as I walk toward town. I rub the fabric of my hoodie sleeves between my fingers, an old habit, something to do with my hands when my head gets too loud. The red from the marker is smeared into the creases of my knuckles, and there’s white dust under my nails from the spray can, which makes me think of Lemon’s yellow fingernails, and about whether she’ll come in today, or rather, whether she can come in today.

My chest does that stupid, tight thing it’s been doing since yesterday.

I hated yesterday.

Not only because she got hurt, or because I spent half the evening imagining worst-case scenarios because nobody told me how bad it was, but because Renée and Paul Bennett showed up to step in for her. They were polite to me, professional, and I should’ve been grateful. Instead, I spent the whole shift trying not to think about how natural they looked running the place.

They’re Mabel’s real family. The ones whose name is already on the building, and the ones who’d inherit if anything happened to her before I could scrape together enough to buy it from her.

I shove the thought down hard. Not going there. Not today.

The number in my savings account has exactly the same digits it had six months ago, which is because the boiler in the east wing needed replacing after I fucked up fixing it, and I paid out of my own pocket because telling Mabel felt like handling her the evidence that I can’t manage the place without her.

I can manage the place. I just need time.

And maybe another season without something structural deciding to fail me.

The goal is still the goal. I just need more time.

The inn is mine in every way that matters except on paper, and I’m going to keep it that way. I have to. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at, the only place where my hands know what to do, even when my brain can’t keep up. If I lose it, I lose everything. Jasper. Mom. Our home.

So yeah. Not going to think about the Bennetts taking over.

I pick up my pace and focus on getting back, checking if Lemon showed up, doing my job, and proving, once again, that I belong there.

One shift at a time.

When I finally reach the inn, I find Simon behind the reception desk, looking as if he’s about to have a panic attack. A middle-aged man is leaning over the counter, his voice edged with irritation.

“I waited forty-five minutes for someone to bring up extra towels. Forty-five minutes! What kind of operation are you running here?”

“I’m so sorry, sir, I put in the request. I thought housekeeping would…” Simon is fumbling with a notepad, his face red. “Let me just call them again.”

I slip behind the desk and step in smoothly, giving Simon a quick nod that says I’ve got this.

“Mr. Patterson, I apologize.” I’m already pulling fresh towels from the storage closet behind the desk. “This is completely on us. I’ll bring these up to your room personally right now, and your dinner tonight is on the house.”

His expression shifts from angry to surprised. “Oh. Well, that’s not necessary⁠—”

“I insist. Besides…” I add, holding up my paint-stained hands with a rueful grin, “… you’ve already had to wait for someone who looks like he just finger-painted his way through art class. The least I can do is feed you well. Our new chef is incredible. If you don’t come back for dinner tonight, you’ll regret it way more than I will.”

He laughs, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “All right, you’ve convinced me.”